The Flowers of Evil 1732 Studios

French · Parisian Scenes

Rêve parisien

Parisian Dream

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    To Constantin Guys

    Àtoà · prepositionpreposition marking Constantin
    ConstantinConstantinConstantin · proper noun, masculine, singularhead of the phrase
    GuysGuysGuys · proper nounpart of the name, with Constantin
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    I

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    Of that terrible landscape,

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    Such as no mortal ever saw,

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    This very morning still the image,

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    Hazy and far-off, enraptures me.

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    Sleep is full of miracles!

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    By a singular whim

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    I had banished from these spectacles

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    All irregular vegetation,

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    And, a painter proud of my genius,

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    I savored within my picture

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    The intoxicating monotony

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    Of metal, of marble, and of water.

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    A Babel of staircases and arcades,

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    It was an infinite palace

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    Full of basins and of cascades

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    Falling into the gold, matte or burnished;

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    And ponderous cataracts,

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    Like curtains of crystal

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    Hung suspended, dazzling,

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    From walls of metal.

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    Not with trees, but with colonnades

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    The sleeping pools surrounded themselves

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    Where gigantic naiads,

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    Like women, gazed at themselves.

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    Sheets of water spread out, blue,

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    Between quays of pink and green,

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    For millions of leagues,

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    Toward the bounds of the universe:

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    There were unheard-of stones

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    And magical waves, there were

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    Immense mirrors dazzled

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    By all that they reflected!

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    Carefree and taciturn,

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    Ganges rivers, in the firmament,

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    Poured the treasure of their urns

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    Into chasms of diamond.

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    Architect of my enchantments,

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    I made, at my will,

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    Beneath a tunnel of gemstones

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    A tamed ocean pass through;

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    And everything, even the color black,

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    Seemed polished, bright, iridescent;

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    The liquid enshrined its glory

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    In the crystallized ray.

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    No star, moreover, no trace

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    Of sun, even low on the horizon,

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    To light up these marvels,

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    Which shone with a fire of their own!

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    And over these moving marvels

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    Hovered (a terrible novelty!

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    All for the eye, nothing for the ears!)

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    A silence of eternity.

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    II

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    On reopening my eyes full of flame

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    I saw the horror of my hovel,

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    And felt, returning into my soul,

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    The sting of accursed cares;

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    The clock with its funereal voice

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    Was brutally striking noon,

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    And the sky was pouring down darkness

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    Upon the sad, numbed world.

The particulars

The text
Les Fleurs du mal, Charles Baudelaire. Parisian Scenes.
Translation
Public-domain French (Baudelaire, d. 1867). English translation © 2026 1732 Studios, LLC.
Words
Every word of the text, by letter.
Data
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